’We’ll buy an Italian palace, and you can play Cleopatra to your heart’s content.  No, you shall be Lucretia, Acte, or anybody your little heart sees fit to become.  But you mustn’t, you really mustn’t-’ ‘The wife of Caesar shall be above reproach.’  ’Of course, but—­’ ‘But I won’t be your wife, will I, dear?’ ’I didn’t mean that.’  ’But you’ll love me just as much, and never even think—­oh!  I know you’ll be like other men; you’ll grow tired, and—­and-’

‘How can you?  I—­’ ‘Promise me.’  ‘Yes, yes; I do promise.’  ’You say it so easily, dear; but how do you know?—­or I know?  I have so little to give, yet it is so much, and all I have.  O, Clyde! promise me you won’t?’

’There, there!  You musn’t begin to doubt already.  Till death do us part, you know.’

‘Think!  I once said that to—­to him, and now?’ ’And now, little sweetheart, you’re not to bother about such things any more.

Of course, I never, never will, and—­’ And for the first time, lips trembled against lips.

Father Roubeau had been watching the main trail through the window, but could stand the strain no longer.

He cleared his throat and turned around.

‘Your turn now, Father!’ Wharton’s face was flushed with the fire of his first embrace.

There was an exultant ring to his voice as he abdicated in the other’s favor.  He had no doubt as to the result.  Neither had Grace, for a smile played about her mouth as she faced the priest.

‘My child,’ he began, ’my heart bleeds for you.  It is a pretty dream, but it cannot be.’

‘And why, Father?  I have said yes.’  ’You knew not what you did.  You did not think of the oath you took, before your God, to that man who is your husband.  It remains for me to make you realize the sanctity of such a pledge.’  ’And if I do realize, and yet refuse?’

‘Then God’

’Which God?  My husband has a God which I care not to worship.  There must be many such.’  ’Child! unsay those words!  Ah! you do not mean them.  I understand.  I, too, have had such moments.’  For an instant he was back in his native France, and a wistful, sad-eyed face came as a mist between him and the woman before him.

’Then, Father, has my God forsaken me?  I am not wicked above women.  My misery with him has been great.  Why should it be greater?  Why shall I not grasp at happiness?  I cannot, will not, go back to him!’ ’Rather is your God forsaken.  Return.  Throw your burden upon Him, and the darkness shall be lifted.  O my child,—­’ ’No; it is useless; I have made my bed and so shall I lie.  I will go on.  And if God punishes me, I shall bear it somehow.  You do not understand.  You are not a woman.’  ‘My mother was a woman.’

‘But—­’ ‘And Christ was born of a woman.’  She did not answer.  A silence fell.  Wharton pulled his mustache impatiently and kept an eye on the trail.  Grace leaned her elbow on the table, her face set with resolve.  The smile had died away.  Father Roubeau shifted his ground.